


Broth and Blankets

by vinnie2757



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Mild Language, Slow Burn, clint is a nerd but laura's into that, idiot young adults being idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21608125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinnie2757/pseuds/vinnie2757
Summary: Clint goes to a S.H.I.E.L.D. Christmas function, because he needs to earn brownie points after, well.After not playing nice with the other agents.And it's there that he meets what's bound to be the bane of his existence, if she doesn't turn out to be a double agent first. Because she's the woman of his dreams, and it's a crying shame that she's engaged to someone he can't stand.[Claura]
Relationships: Clint Barton/Laura Barton
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	1. Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I SUBMITTED MY FIRST PGCE ASSIGNMENT AND I AM LIVING
> 
> Enjoy, my lovelies!

It's not that Clint doesn't want to be here. It's just.

He doesn't want to be here.

Social things aren't really his bag to begin with, but it's a S.H.I.E.L.D. social thing, and it's bullshit. Some of the guys were moaning that their girlfriends were moaning that they don't have "work parties" for them to get dressed up for, and so Special Agent Fury had had enough of it and sought permission from Special Director Carter, and she'd given him the go-ahead to rent out a swanky Manhattan bar with nibbles and an open tab for all the Level 7 boys to show off their girlfriends and wives and talk coded shop.

So no. As someone with no significant other, and as someone with no desire to talk shop, and as someone for whom a Manhattan bar holds no appeal, he doesn't want to be there.

So he shows up late and doesn't make an effort and it's only because Coulson's tapped his chin during their weekly "and how are you doing this week but I'm not your mental health worker" chat that he's here at all.

Doesn't play well with others is already on his file. Don't need it underlined twice in red pen.

The party's in full swing by the time he shows up, and he's ready to blend into the background, have a couple short chats with a couple people, and then disappear again. But he walks through the door, and she's there.

She being the single most beautiful girl he's ever seen in his life and he's pretty sure she must be a double agent. She's wearing a tiny red dress and her legs are crossed on the bar stool she's perched on, one totteringly high heel hooked into the ring of the stool, and she's fiddling with a necklace with one hand, the other loosely holding a cocktail glass. Her hair's curled and loose around her collar and tumbling like she's tossed it back out of her face and there's a solemn downturn to her mouth and fuck sake she's too pretty to be in the bar. Did she get caught here when the Level 7s rocked up and now she feels stuck? Oh god, is she a girlfriend? What moron would not be at her side trying to make her smile?

He hovers at the doorway, staring at the way her fingers turn a pendant one way and then the next and he can't tell what it is but he can tell from the familiarity of the action that it's something she wears daily, so it’s possibly an heirloom? A cherished gift? He’s not sure, doesn't have enough to go on. She's dolled herself up though, and she's been left at the bar.

He takes half a step forward, no harm in introducing himself after all, when Rumlow appears out of the crowd. 

His hand is on the girl's back, and she turns, stands out of the stool and fuck, she's short, even with the heels. But then Rumlow's hand is on her ass, and he's kissing a spot behind her ear, something familiar and he obviously means it to be sensual, but the girl's head is locked straight, no weakness in her neck at all. They exchange words, kiss on the lips, her hand on his arm. There's a ring on her finger.

Fuck, he'd heard about Rumlow's engagement, of course he had. His whole gang had been making noise about it, whooping and cheering and there'd been a congratulatory banner in the gym.

As if he got that lucky. Fucking asshole.

He huffs out a breath through his nose as Rumlow just, leaves her at the bar and goes back to his buddies.

‘Moron,’ he says under his breath.

He watches the girl for half a second more, and then thinks, fuck it Just fuck it. He’s a grown man and he wants a beer and he’s going to have to go to the bar to get one and well, the only seat available is next to her.

Honest, hand to heart, swear to God, he doesn’t intend to talk to her. Just order a beer and sit there and mope, but he hauls himself into the stool on a tight neck and sore knuckles, and her voice is like honey in his hearing aids.

‘You look how I feel,’ she says, and offers him a blistering smile when he frowns at her.

‘I feel worse than I look,’ he replies.

‘That’s why women are better, obviously,’ she grins, and shifts her weight on her elbows, angling herself towards him, looking really too pretty for her own good.

Her eyes are honey gold, framed by mascara and enough shadow to really make said gold sparkle, and he can’t help but wonder if she looks at Rumlow like this, if he feels as trapped and transfixed as he does.

‘Oh?’ he manages to choke out, and nods to the bartender when he passes across the beer.

‘Yes,’ she replies, and gestures at her face. Her lipstick’s mostly worn off, the remnants of a smudge on her glass. ‘We get to wear makeup to disguise how bad we look, so we always feel worse inside.’

‘Then shouldn’t you be at home with broth and blankets?’ he asks around the neck of his bottle, and arches a brow.

Her smile is sly, and then delighted, and the giggle he gets almost throws him over.

‘Probably,’ she says with a shrug of one gentle shoulder. A curl tumbles over it, bounces against her cheek. ‘But we must do - our wifely duties, I suppose.’

‘I wasn’t aware Rumlow’d got married.’

‘He hasn’t, yet,’ she says, and there’s the edge of a bite to it, a rake of teeth, a curl of lip.

Touched a nerve. He shows some common sense for a man that eats cold pizza, and backs down.

‘Well, he wants to hurry up then, someone’ll steal you away if he’s not careful.’

‘Mm,’ she hums, and raises her glass to her mouth. Her eyebrows raise. ‘Wouldn’t want that now, would we?’

Clint downs half the bottle in one long pull, and watches her from the corner of his eye. Her necklace is a six-pointed star, and she traces it with one finger as she finishes her glass and flags the bartender for another.

‘How many have you had?’

‘Not even my father asks me that kind of question,’ she replies.

‘You definitely need broth and blankets,’ he tells her. ‘Grumpy drunks aren’t fun drunks.’

‘I am definitely a fun drunk,’ she assures him, and the warmth comes back to her eyes. ‘This just isn’t a fun place. It’s boring! Just a bunch of men talking security, like I don’t hear all about it when he bothers to call me. Oh, I don’t mean to complain, I’m so sorry.’

She rests a hand on his arm, and the contrition on her face tells him that she probably doesn’t mean to; they’ve probably had a - debate - about this whole party thing tonight, and she’d probably thought it would be different than it was. A girl doesn’t wear a dress like that for no reason.

‘You don’t have to apologise,’ he tells her. ‘These aren’t my kind of places either.’

Her hand is still on his arm. He gives her another second to move it, even though her skin is soft, and warm, and feels very much like it should be there. But she doesn’t move it, and so he puts his hand on hers to retract it, and of course, like he was fucking  _ waiting _ , Rumlow appears at her shoulder out of nowhere.

‘Barton,’ he says, too loud, and Clint hadn’t even noticed how the din of the bar had faded when she talked. ‘I see you’ve met my lovely fiancee. Laura, this is Barton, one of the other guys on payroll.’

‘Barton,’ Laura echoes, ‘does he have a first name, Brock, or are we not playing nice?’

Clint snorts, and gives Rumlow an expectant look, but he’s staring at a spot behind Clint’s ear.

‘Clint,’ he says, because obviously he’s going to have to introduce himself. ‘Clint Barton.’

‘Laura Harcourt,’ she replies, and extends a hand.

Just to be an absolute prick, and knowing full well the next time he goes into the showers at HQ, he’ll leave with bruised ribs and a black eye, he kisses her knuckles.

Laura smiles, and her fingers linger as she retracts her hand.

‘Nice to meet you, Clint Barton,’ she says, and Rumlow clears his throat.

‘Did you want to dance?’ he asks, and the pointed look he gives Laura makes her sip her cocktail.

‘I’ve had too many to be coordinated enough for you,’ she says, fluttering her eyelashes.

Clint snorts into his beer, Rumlow gives him a filthy look, and Laura raises her eyebrows. She’s challenging him, and Clint is  _ fascinated _ to see where it all ends up. Is this usual? Will Rumlow swallow his pride? Will they fight about it when they get home? Do they live together, or will he drop her off and not stay? He gets a twist in his gut, lack of food probably, at the thought of a fight. Rumlow’s not the sort to get handsy, but they said that about Sean Penn.

‘Oh,  _ darling _ ,’ Rumlow says, in the kind of passive-aggressive tone Clint’s heard mothers in his building use on their argumentative toddlers. ‘You’re never uncoordinated enough for me, and you’ve been sat here for too long. They’re playing slow songs, and it’d be a shame to waste it.’

A lot of words, Clint thinks, and finishes his bottle, flags the bartender for another. Laura looks at her cocktail. She looks at Clint. She looks at her cocktail. She looks at her fiancé. She downs the cocktail, and gets unsteadily to her feet.

‘It was nice to meet you,’ she says, and rests a hand on Clint’s arm, before taking Rumlow’s offered hand, and disappearing into a throng of people.

Clint watches her go, and thinks he hears her laughter. His second beer arrives, and he looks at it with something almost like hatred.

‘Don’t do it,’ he tells himself, and downs the bottle in one.

He hovers for a few minutes, wondering if he should make some conversation with someone, anyone, but he can’t bring himself to care. A new song starts, some slow thing everyone is pretending not to sing along to, and he takes his leave.

There’s a message on his answering machine when he gets back to his apartment, something from Fury asking him if he’s up for an assignment.

He doesn’t even question it, just accepts it straight out. It’s out of the country until the other side of Christmas, and that’s fine by him. It’s not like he has anyone to celebrate Christmas with anyway, so he might as well get some work done. Maybe he’ll be taking Rumlow’s job, and he can spend some time with his fiancée, because God knows it seems like he doesn’t spend enough with her.

Ah, whatever.

* * *

He’s been back in New York for less than twenty four fucking hours. It’s two in the afternoon, it’s raining, and he’s got bloodstains on his favourite t-shirt, and Laura is staring at him like he grew a second head while he was in Osaka.

‘What?’ he asks, and dumps his laundry bag on the bench to start shoving it in a machine. ‘Is there something on my face?’

‘No,’ she says, ‘no, I just - for some reason I didn’t expect to see you again?’ She says it like a question.

He pulls a face at her, and touches damp fabric. Great, the shirt hasn’t dried from where he rinsed it, so he pulls a face at that too.

‘I live in Brooklyn,’ he says, with a shrug, and tosses a handful of clothes into the machine.

A pair of boxers falls on the floor. She doesn’t even acknowledge them.

‘Yeah? You work this side?’

‘Yeah. It’s alright, if I get up five minutes late I’ll be late to work, though, which is just typical of this city.’

She laughs, and his mouth both goes very wet and very dry at the same time when she crosses her legs, one tucked up underneath and the other dangling, and it’s very unfair. She’s wearing shorts and thick tights and chunky boots and an army jacket and her hair’s a mess and she’s obviously on a day off, and oh no.

Oh no, Clint no. Don’t do it.

‘See, I’m over in Hell’s Kitchen, and I work in the Theatre District, so it’s not that far, I can walk on a nice day. Run, if i’m in flats.’

She’s giving him a blistering smile, and his heart does a flip flop. Please, he begs himself, please behave.

‘I only run in flats,’ he replies, and tosses the last couple things in, ‘heels are just ankle-breakers.’

She brushes a strand of hair from her face. ‘It’s nice to see you again,’ she says, and her cheeks colour. ‘I wanted to apologise for being so drunk at the bar.’

He waves her off, tosses powder in willy-nilly and throws the machine into its cycle.

‘Don’t mention it,’ he says, and sits down at a respectful distance, but she turns towards him. ‘Neither of us were at our best then. Did you throw up?’

Her ears are pink under her hair, but she laughs. ‘Yes! Oh goodness, it was so embarrassing, I made it to the ladies’ but, oh, it was shocking, and I’m so grateful that there was another couple girls in there, but you were right, I needed broth and blankets.’

He laughs. ‘I can imagine it wasn’t a good night for your fiance?’

‘Oh, he took it well enough,’ she shrugs. ‘He’s used to me embarrassing myself in public. I think he was hoping for something a little more - personal, since it was a party. But well, I said goodbye at the end of the night, and off he went.’

Clint snorts. He can imagine Rumlow did expect something a little more personal after having Laura flirt with another man in front of him, but well, he shouldn’t have left Laura at the bar to get wasted then, should he? Dickhead.

A machine pings, and Laura gets up to change her laundry over. Clint, without thinking, gets up to help, and it's only when he's got two fingers tangled in something small and lacy and purple that he realises what he's doing.

'Oh God,' he says, and throws everything in his hands into the basket, 'sorry.'

She laughs, and hip checks him. 'Don't worry about it. It's nice that a guy wants to help! Brock will just leave me to it, even though he's  _ really _ good at folding.'

'Ah, now that's where I have to tap out,' Clint laughs, and takes a seat on the bench again, 'I can't fold worth a damn. I can't even pair socks.'

She laughs at him over her laundry. 'I don't pair my socks either. Brock hates it, but he only owns black socks, so it's not like it's hard for him.'

Clint can imagine what Rumlow's wardrobe looks like. He's never seen the man on anything other than standard Level 7 issue gear, whereas Clint can and has shown up in pyjama pants and tracksuits and on one memorable occasion, a Captain America costume. 

'Does he actually wear colour?' he asks.

'You know, he bought a white t-shirt the other week, I was very impressed.'

'Wow,' Clint snorts, 'and here's me feeling weird about buying a purple one.'

'Purple's my favourite colour.'

Most people attribute life-changing dialogue to something profound, something about time or money or never giving up. Not Clint Barton, no. His life changing dialogue is a girl he's a little bit ashamed to have been thinking about a little bit more than not at all telling him they have the same favourite colour. 

Sounds about right for him, really.

They make more idle chatter as she finishes off swapping around her laundry, and he learns enough about her to know he shouldn't learn anything else.

She's only a year younger than him, she moved from Idaho when she was 18, and she works in some sweet little office job in town. She's got two big brothers and no car so she walks to work, and she really likes Italian food. She doesn't mention the necklace, but she does say that Brock once brought home a ham and pineapple pizza on their, like, fourth date, and it's sort of an in-joke now. They don't live together, he learns, but Laura says that when they get married, his work have offered to finance a place for them. She wants children, but she's not sure how it would fit in, so maybe at first they'll have a dog. It would have to be a big gold pup, though, and she's been looking in shelters.

'I just like the idea of a big fluffball retriever by our chairs in the evening,' she says with a shrug.

Oh no, she's got to be a double agent sent to test him. Why would a girl who he would cut off a limb to date for a month never mind  _ marry  _ be anywhere near him if not to test him? It must be Director Carter, up to her usual tricks. He tells himself he doesn't even like her, but he knows it's too late. He's a little bit in love with her and it's going to be downhill from here.

So in an effort to help himself, he asks about Rumlow.

'When did you meet?' he asks, 'he doesn't seem the social sort.'

'He's not,' Laura laughs. 'We met by accident, actually. My umbrella broke during a bad storm and he gave me his coat until we got to a shop selling new ones. We got chatting and we met for coffee and here we are. It's been, what, five years now?'

'Five years,' Clint blinks. 'Christ. You must have met him months after you moved.'

She blushes. 'Fourth day after I moved in,' she admits. 'I'd gotten lost.'

Clint had only been in New York for about a year by them, and it had taken years for him to learn his way to and from HQ.

'He must have been going to Fogwell's,' he says. 'I see him there sometimes.'

'Yes! He'd been on his way to train for some work thing, he'd said. I never did find out how that went.'

No, Clint imagines she wouldn't have. Like Clint, Rumlow shot through the ranks and was killing people very early on.

Clint's laundry pings, so he gets up to switch it over. Laura's eyes are on him, and there are questions he can't answer in her gaze.

'How do you know Brock?' she asks. 'I know he's not the easiest to get on with, but you don't seem. Um. Friendly.'

Clint snorts. 'We work together, but we step on each other's toes a bit. Too many cooks and all that. We play nice, mostly.'

Her lips purse; he's told her nothing.

'Do you box, then? If you go to the gym, too?'

'I do,' he nods. 'Not as much as I used to. Work keeps me busy. And I'm trying to keep my joints moving, so I'm doing gymnastics sometimes instead.'

'Gymnastics? Like school girls do?'

He snorts again. 'Kind of. I was in a carnival, when I was growing up.'

Her face lights up. 'No way! For real? Were you like, an acrobat?'

Part of him wishes he hadn't opened his mouth.

'Yeah, a little bit. I used to do trick shots with a bow and arrow. Just uh. Rumlow -'

'Doesn't know,' she interrupts. 'I won't tell him, don't worry. That's so cool, though! I bet it was fun.'

'Sometimes, but I didn't pass high school, so if I get sacked, I'm screwed.'

She frowns. 'High school's not too tricky, you could do some evening classes or something, maybe. I could help you with the homework.'

Clint knows exactly why Rumlow is marrying her, if he ever chooses to set a date. Which he hasn't yet, and probably won't because Level 7 boys are off around the world at a moment's notice, and Special Agent Fury isn't about letting them go for weddings and honeymoons. Their non-mission time is their vacation time as far as he's concerned. Which is how Clint views it, and he wastes every single one, just the way he should.

It's a sore point for Laura, he's found. She wants to get married, but can't get Rumlow to commit. It's a shame. Clint would get it done in a courthouse and worry about the party later, just to have the paperwork in order. At least if they're married, Laura has security for Rumlow's death.

But this is why Rumlow is marrying her and not Clint. Because Rumlow is a dickhead, and they get everything.

Prick.

Laura's laundry is done not long after, and she tries to delay leaving, but she has no reason to, and it's date night so she really ought to get ready.

'No cocktails this time,' Clint says, wagging a finger as she puts her laundry into bags. 'I mean it, and home before midnight.'

'Yes, boss,' she snorts, and clacks her heels as she salutes him.

He laughs, and wishes her well, even though the thought of Rumlow getting his  _ personal _ evening with her makes him want to throw up.

'See you soon,' she says, and he gets the feeling she's here almost every week at this time.

He'll try to remember it, so he can avoid coming at the same time. No need to antagonise Rumlow with association with his fiance. He hadn't been to HQ for long enough yet, but he knows the beatdown for Christmas is coming. It's only a matter of time.

* * *

It's after Clint comes back from another quick mission in-state (arms' dealer gone rogue, giving a few not-so-quiet quiet corners of factions a leg up they don't need) that Rumlow finally gets him. Well, it's not actually Rumlow. It's one of his bullshit cronies, but it was never going to be Rumlow. He's a pretty boy that talks a very good talk, but he never actually gets his hands dirty. He's been bad-mouthing Clint for weeks, so says Coulson, who hears all about this stuff on account of his being a handler, and thereby dealing with everybody.

But it was never going to be Rumlow that caught up to him, nah.

He's just had lunch in the canteen after having a long workout in the gym, and he's ready to just. Have an easy afternoon pretending to fill out paperwork, but no, he steps into the shower block and gets clotheslined. Fucking great.

He hits the floor and lies there for a second. He doesn't see the need to rush, he's already had the wind knocked out of him, his assailant isn't going to be too pressed to attack some more.

'You're a prick,' Clint croaks, because Rollins is a prick.

'At least I'm not the one making eyes at another man's fiance.'

'Oh, get lost.'

Clint rolls to his feet, dusts himself down, and shoves past Rollins. Or tries to, but Rollins shoves him back.

'Dude, I'm twenty-four. I'd have stayed in high school if I wanted to play this fucking game.'

'Do you not get it?' Rollins asks. 'You've been disrespectful, Barton. Rumlow brings his future wife to an event no one wants you at, and you go so far as to make a move on her?'

'Oh, God, you really didn't move past high school, did you?'

'This isn't high school, moron, it's life, it's what you're doing to fuck someone else's up.'

'Dude, I just want to have a shower. I've been in the gym, and I've got to battle paperwork, and I want to be clean, why does this have to be an issue?'

'You kissed Brock's fiancée!'

Clint makes an incredibly frustrated noise. 'You fucking idiot, I kissed her hand! She introduced herself! I was being polite! Get out of my way so that I can get back to work. Fuck sake.'

Rollins very much does not get out of Clint's way, and very much does not let him get back to work. By the time Clint's had enough and put Rollins on the floor where he belongs, he's got a black eye and bloody nose, bruised ribs and a really sore knee.

'Just fuck off,' he says, and limps off to the shower cubicle with the functioning lock because fuck Rollins.

And fuck Laura for being so nice as to make him want to talk to her so some cretin like Rollins can give him a black eye. Honestly, it's like a man can't appreciate beauty any more.

Except not really fuck Laura, she's a very pretty girl and he'd be a fool to not admit that he'd probably not say no if she offered. But she's engaged, and she's a stand-up sort of girl who apologises for being three sheets to the wind at a social function because it'll embarrass her intended. She's too nice for their bullshit. God only knows how much she’s had to put up with from Rumlow in the years they’ve been together, but he’s not about to start adding to that with his own nonsense and this bullshit infighting that’s obviously going to start, and that will  _ really _ please Coulson, but what’s Clint meant to do? Never set foot in HQ again?  _ Apologise _ ?

He’d rather die than apologise to Rumlow.

He groans, ducks his head under the spray of the shower, and stares at the water pooling between his toes.

‘This is going to bite my ass,’ he tells the drain, and the drain gurgles back.

* * *

Laura spends Christmas not really celebrating it, but then she’s never really celebrated Christmas. Brock wants her to come and see his parents, of course, and she tries to find excuses to put it off, but she’s been putting it off for years. It’s not that she doesn’t like them, it’s just -

His mother puts crosses on the wall and has porcelain dolls just  _ sitting there _ , and to be honest, Laura doesn’t know how to deal with this overly sweet and nice motherly sort. She’s short and her waistline’s expanding in time with her hair greying, and Laura loves her, of course she does, but holidays are a different thing entirely, and she doesn’t see her  _ own _ mother at Christmas, so why would she see her husband-to-be’s mother?

It doesn’t make sense. But trying to explain this not-sense (a different thing from nonsense, and she had fun trying to explain  _ that _ , too!) to Brock just gets a grumpy face and a cold shoulder, and he works away for a couple of weeks until he rocks up with a bag full of dirty socks and some bruises and scrapes he shrugs off.

She hates it. She’s sure he’s doing something more than security, but she can’t get him to fess up. So she has to take him at face value, and she’s had one falsehood already, she doesn’t want her relationship with his mother to be a falsehood, too.

So they don’t speak for a week at Christmas, but it’s all bullshit, because when she goes to see the Rumlows for dinner the following Sunday, she finally caves and explains to her almost-mother-in-law that she doesn’t really celebrate Christmas, it’s a family culture thing, and she’s got a big jumper on and so she can’t be called out on her choice in jewellery, which means she doesn’t have to explain herself.

Brock’s mother is actually really calm about it, and doesn’t mind at all, and understands that people have different ways of celebrating.

‘I do hope you weren’t alone, though,’ she says, in that kind of tone that tells Laura she has gone down a little bit in her estimations.

Not enough that it really matters, but she’s made an Opinion, and Laura will only be able to avoid this for however long it takes to get Brock to set a date. Once the date’s set, there’s no escaping Christmas. She’s never taken him home to holidays at her dad’s, and her mother wants nothing to do with him, the way her mother has never wanted anything to do with Laura’s personal life, which suits Laura fine, because she gets on perfectly with her mother, so long as their personal is kept personal.

So yeah, Christmas is over and done with for another year. Which is probably for the best, because Brock’s been on a right miserable strop ever since that party, and she doesn’t even really know what the problem was.

Well, no, she does. She knows exactly what’s caused it, and it would be weird if she said she didn’t think about Clint more than not at all. She’s curious about him, in the sort of way any sensible girl would be curious about a man that seemed to patently hate his job, and hate his coworkers, and yet still rock up to the Christmas party. He’d not come with anyone, so that meant he didn’t have a significant other; that sort of party, you take your partner, if you have one, and if you don’t, you don’t take anyone. She’s learned that much about Brock’s side of the world, at least. You have your Person, and that’s it, pretty much. She feels flattered to be Brock’s Person, of course, because anyone would be happy to have him, tall and handsome and a little bit dark. He’s handy around the house, and he’s happy to dote on her, when he’s around. He has his moments, but he’s a good man, and she loves him.

Clint’s just - a mystery. He’d been cute, in his own way, summer freckles on his nose where he’d obviously been in another warmer country at some point recently, and a square jaw that needed a couple extra pounds, in a good way. Brock is all muscle, not an ounce of fat, and Clint had obviously been just as fit, but he’d been skinny, underfed. Doesn’t look after himself too well.

Then he’d kissed her hand, and he had to  _ know _ that would upset Brock. It’s all he’d talked about for three days, and she’d been bored senseless, but she tolerated it, and soothed his ego, and tried to talk him down from beating Clint up.

He really didn’t need to be getting bloody knuckles over hers being kissed.

And then! And then, Clint had shown up in her launderette, even though there didn’t seem to be any need for him to be in Hell’s Kitchen, and he’d been washing clothes with  _ blood _ on, and it obviously wasn’t  _ his _ blood, because he’d not had a scratch on him. After being with Brock for so long, she knows the signs of injuries, and he’d not had any.

So what was she supposed to do? She talked to him, of course, but he was as funny as her drunken haze had made her believe, and he was sweet, and he listened well. He was interesting too, which as baffling, how could he be so interesting? He had layers she couldn’t see, and it intrigued her.

She sits in a little Italian place just off Times Square, and she stares out the window as she waits for her linguine, watching the rain patter and splash on the pavement, and she sighs. Brock’s away again, and it was supposed to be date night. She could have gone out, but instead here she sits. She’s been trying to bring him here for months, after having a really nice lunch here one day, but of course the moment she convinces him, he’s gone.

The door jingles, and she sinks her cheek further into her hand.

‘Ah, here you are! We’ve been waiting!’ shouts the owner, a short Italian man who is a literal ray of sunshine except when he has to throw someone out, and Laura looks up out of boredom and curiosity.

_ Clint _ .

‘No way,’ she breathes.

She feels trapped. Pranked. Like it’s a set up and she’s been caught out. Like a punishment is coming.

Clint is rain-damp and he’s not dressed for the rain, in jeans and a jacket and a T-shirt. No scarf or gloves or anything. But he’s laughing, and clapping hands with the owner like he knows him, and they chatter for a moment.

Then Clint turns, obviously intending to take a table, when he pauses, and Laura knows.

He’s a regular here, and she’s sitting at his table.


	2. A Haircut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint gets a haircut, Laura spills a drink, and Fury might actually be a real person.

‘So this is awkward,’ Laura says.

Clint hovers for a second, and then shrugs, takes a seat opposite her.

‘A little,’ he agrees. ‘Makes me wonder how many times we were in the same place, just didn’t know each other to be aware of it.’

She hums. ‘Well, probably a lot, if you work around here.’

He nods. They fall silent. Laura licks her lips, swallows, tries not to fiddle with her necklace. Clint looks at his fingers, picks at tattered skin at his nail bed, scuffs his feet against the linoleum. Laura drums her fingers on the table once. His eyes flutter up to her.

'Do you, um, come here often?' she asks.

He smiles. 'Often enough that I have my own table.'

As if on cue, the owner sidles over with a basket of bread. He lingers for a second longer than necessary, and then slinks away, as much as short overweight Italian can slink.

Clint watches him with one eyebrow half-raised, and then shakes his head.

‘He’s such a sneak, look at him look. He’s been on my case about a girlfriend for months.’

‘But I’m not - ‘ she starts.

‘Oh, obviously,’ Clint hurries to assure her, ‘but he won’t let that stop him. You’re very pretty.’

She finds her cheeks heating, and hopes it’s not an actual blush, because that would only encourage the restaurateur to get his hopes up.

It’s only when her linguine arrives that she realises she’d been leaning in across the table, and she jumps upright as the plate is slid onto the table between her elbows.

‘Pizza?’ the server asks Clint, and he shrugs.

‘Sure, why not?’

The girl nods, and she disappears back through the side door into the kitchen.

‘This place has always seemed really nice,’ she says, stirring the pasta with her fork idly, watching him stretch and yawn and make himself comfortable.

‘Yeah, they’ve been going for a while now, really established themselves as the best Italian place this side of Manhattan. They’ve always treated me really well, considering I’m very not Italian.’

She smiles. ‘The owner is very friendly.’

‘Vanni? He’s a pain in my backside, but he’s a good man. You brought Rumlow here?’

‘Supposed to be date night,’ she says, ‘but he’s been called into work.’

Clint racks his brains; he can’t say he really cares about what Rumlow does on a day to day basis. There was talk of a mission, he thinks, but he couldn’t say the who’s or what’s or where’s of it.

‘So you came alone?’

‘Better than staying at home,’ she shrugs, ‘and hey, I got to see you again.’

Something turns over in Clint’s belly. It’s not that he’s not happy to see Laura again; far from it. He’s just –

She’s _engaged_.

But she’s smiling at him like he’s the best thing she’s seen all day, like she’s happy for once, genuinely happy, and he can’t begrudge her that, even if it is going to get his ass kicked again. Then again – no one has to know. Surely Rumlow’s not so paranoid about his girlfriend that he’s going to have someone tailing her. It’s not even like he’s got any real enemies yet. He doesn’t do enough of the bullshit world-saving to get that privilege, and God knows Clint envies that. He’s on no less than three different kill-lists. He doesn’t even have the option of being captured, he’s just got three bounties for his head to be shot off his shoulders at first sight.

Amazing.

He realises, belatedly, that Laura is speaking.

‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘I was thinking of something else.’

She smiles, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

‘No worries,’ she says, ‘at least you apologise. I was just saying, I’d been wondering if I might see you again, because I hadn’t seen you for a while between the party and the launderette, and then its been a bit between then and now.’

‘Bit awkward,’ he snorts, and straightens.

Her eyebrows knot, and then she turns at the sound of the side door opening to reveal the server, who comes bearing pizza and a curious look. Clint frowns at her, and she raises her eyebrows in a silent challenge. He wrinkles his nose, and makes room for her to put the pizza down.

‘Grazie,’ he says.

‘Please stop embarrassing yourself,’ the server replies, and looks at Laura with something like amusement in her eyes. ‘Every time, he puts too much emphasis on the Z, like dude, there ain’t a T in it.’

Laura spreads her hands. ‘Men,’ she says, like it answers all of the girl’s questions and concerns.

The girl gives her finger-guns back, saying, ‘ain’t that the truth?’ before disappearing as quickly as she appeared.

Clint watches her go, chewing on a slice of pizza like it has personally offended him.

Laura smiles at him, and he can’t help himself but to smile back. He has sauce on his lip, and she catches herself about to reach over and wipe it off.

‘I’m glad I saw you again, too,’ he says, soft, almost like he doesn’t want her to hear it. ‘Have you been alright?’

She raises an eyebrow, hears the double meaning to the question. For a second, she’s almost offended, but then she realises that whatever it is Brock doesn’t tell her about his job, Clint is involved in the same stuff, and it’s coming from a place of concern for whatever Brock doesn’t tell her. He obviously doesn’t _like_ Brock, but she doesn’t think Clint would ever believe he’d hurt her, so it’s not that. It’s all the other shit.

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I’m fine. I’d – I’d like to set a date, I think. I’m tired of being a fiancée, you know? I want to be a wife.’

‘I’d be a really pretty wife,’ Clint nods, ‘but I can’t say I’m ready to take that step to admit to relating to your troubles. I get it though. Wanting something that’s – that’s right there, and it makes so much sense to you, and it’s so _logical_ , but nobody else is seeing it, nobody else gets it. That shit’s rough.’

‘Exactly!’ she says, and waves her fork at him. ‘It just makes _sense_. It’s been years of engagement, and I told him when he proposed that I didn’t want a long engagement, I wanted to get married within two years, and I don’t want a big wedding, I don’t have family here, and I don’t need to drag them all out of their lives for a _day_ , I just need a courthouse and a nice dress from Macy’s, and two witnesses to sign the paperwork, that’s all I need. I don’t even need the – ‘

Here, she falters for a second, and Clint tips his head.

‘The Chuppah?’ he asks, and wonders if he’s overstepped when she goes white and then pink. ‘Your necklace, I – I assumed. Sorry.’

‘No, no, I mean. That’s why I wear it. I’m not – I’m not religious at all. But it’s my _family_ , you know? My history. You don’t escape that. And I know Dad would understand. He never made any of us get involved at all, and like – Mom wanted to have all three of us Christened but he put his foot down, and that’s probably one of the reasons he filed for divorce, and don’t even begin to try and understand what Nanna made of it all! But – ‘ Here, she cups a hand around her mouth and leans in, ‘ – Brock’s mother’s got _crosses_ on her wall, and I love her, she’s a lovely woman. But they’re _crosses_. Like we’re in _Texas_.’

Clint, who has been to Texas more times than he’d like to have, laughs.

‘You’ve never been to Texas, have you?’ he asks.

‘I saw an episode of Unsolved Mysteries there once,’ she says, with a wrinkle in her nose.

‘So you want a quiet wedding, but she wants the big deal?’

Her lips twist. ‘She definitely wants to see her boy walk down an aisle in a big fancy church,’ she says, ‘and me being secular is just an excuse for her.’

‘Then make him go to the courthouse. If it’s already official, all it is after that is a party, and everyone likes a party.’

She frowns at him like he doesn’t get it.

‘You don’t get it,’ she says, ‘it’ll be a _thing_ with his family. Mine don’t care, they just want me to be happy. And _I_ don’t care, I just want to get this waiting over with. Why propose if you don’t want to be married?’

‘Yeah,’ he agrees, with a slow nod, shoving another slice of pizza into his mouth. ‘I have to admit, when you said you’d been engaged for so long, I couldn’t believe he’d waited. I’d have been down the courthouse within six months, just to get the paperwork secure. If I had someone as good as you waiting to be on my arm, I wouldn’t hang about.’

‘Thank you!’ she exclaims. ‘You get that. I mean, you don’t get that his family will be a pain in my neck about it if we don’t have a _wedding_ , but you get that it’s stupid.’

‘It’s super stupid,’ he nods.

Conversation turns to other things then, TV and music, and Clint does a really awful impression of Sheryl Crow. They talk, and at some point, Laura becomes aware that he’s got his feet on her chair legs, and they’re leaning across the table, and Vanni’s brought her a glass of wine, and Clint had given him a face over it, because, as he says, that’s really weird, dude. So she drinks the wine out of spite, and he laughs at her choking on it, and they talk about the Superbowl, and about the latest drama on _Days of Our Lives_ , which amazes Laura, because Clint talks about being at home most evenings, so how is he not at work during the day? Unless it’s some kind of shift work, and she elects to not make a meal of it, she’s got a glass of wine in her and no desire to understand how the boys’ jobs really work.

She wants to know more, of course she does, but she’s not desperate to understand.

‘Hey,’ he says, and his ankle touches hers. ‘Probably time we got you home.’

She starts; the back lights of the restaurant are off. Vanni has made no move to hurry them along, but it’s clear he’s waiting to shut the place. She looks at the clock; it’s past ten.

‘Christ,’ she says, and Clint laughs.

‘Hope you don’t kiss your mother-in-law with that mouth,’ he says, and she kicks him under the table.

‘Behave!’ she snorts, and gets to her feet, dusting herself down. ‘I can’t believe I made an effort, look at this dress. Wasted.’

Clint, who has been trying very hard not to look down said dress all evening, makes a noise in the back of his throat.

‘I wouldn’t say wasted,’ he admits, and rubs the back of his head. ‘Not used to its full potential, but not wasted.’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘You enjoyed the view?’

‘Is it weird if I say yes?’

She holds two fingers a hair apart. ‘Little bit. Just a little.’

He shrugs. ‘I’ll walk you home,’ he says, ‘the Mets were playing, it’ll be a mess out there if they didn’t win.’

She pulls a face. ‘I can handle rowdy Mets fans just fine.’

But as she says it, she sees it in Clint’s face; it’s not about getting into her good books, it’s about staying out of Brock’s bad books. He likes her company, but he doesn’t _care_ about that, he just doesn’t want to get into trouble. And that’s dumb. That’s real dumb. But she understands, and she supposes someone should be walking her home since her fiancé isn’t around to do it.

‘I suppose,’ she says, ‘but only to my street, I don’t want you to know where I live.’

‘Fair,’ he nods.

Vanni is leaning on the counter with his chin in his hands like a schoolgirl when Clint gets Laura’s coat for her, and he doesn’t whistle, or make rude comments or gestures, but he does bat his eyelashes, and _Clint_ doesn’t mind making a rude gesture or three behind Laura’s back as they walk to the door.

‘Good luck!’ Vanni calls, and Clint mutters something very rude under his breath.

‘Why would he say that?’ Laura asks, knowing full well why he’d say it, but wanting Clint to admit it.

‘He thinks I like you.’

‘I’m engaged.’

‘Yes,’ he says, and there’s something stony in his voice that makes her blink up at him. ‘I know.’

‘Does it bother you?’

‘Not at all.’

And there, conversation ends, at least for a few blocks. They walk next to each other, but a step apart so they don’t bump arms, and say nothing. She feels like she should be holding his hand. It feels very unnatural to not be holding his hand, and Clint’s fingers are twitching. He definitely wants to hold her hand, is sure that nothing would feel right unless he did so, but it’s all out of his control. He can’t hold another man’s fiancée’s hand, and he certainly can’t hold _Rumlow’s_ fiancée’s hand.

He likes his teeth where they are.

‘Tell me something,’ she says, when the silence gets to be too much.

‘Yeah.’

‘Why did you sit at the table? It wasn’t busy, you could have sat anywhere, so don’t tell me that it was _your_ table, and you _have_ to sit there. That’s the sort of posturing I expect from Brock, not you.’

Clint shrugs. ‘It was my table, and you looked lonely.’

‘So it was pity company.’

‘A little bit. Mostly, it was my table.’

She shoves at him, and he sidesteps into the road to avoid falling off the kerb.

‘Rude,’ he tells her.

She laughs, and it’s like an angel’s chorus bouncing between his ears. Fuck it.

‘Hey,’ he says, when she says that they need to take the next left and then the next right to get to her street. ‘I had fun.’

Laura rubs her nose, looking at him from under her lashes. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. You’re – you’re really nice to talk to.’

‘Not easy?’

He snorts, and shoves her with the soft part of his elbow. ‘Who’s engaged now?’

She colours, and tells him to shut up, and he laughs, chances brushing their arms together. She doesn’t pull away, so he stays that step closer, and the world seems a little more on its axis.

‘I mean it,’ he says, ‘you’re – you’re good company. Rumlow’s a lucky man.’

‘Jealous?’ she asks.

He holds his fingers a hair apart. ‘Little bit.’

She stops then, and looks at him. He stops and looks at her. She’s considering him in a way he’s never been able to understand women’s expressions, and he just has to stand there and be judged, and hope he passes whatever test she’s putting him through. Surely, she’s not such a lightweight that one glass has got her thinking of making poor choices, but surely, she’s not thinking _totally_ square.

‘You’ll find a nice girl,’ she tells him, when the wait for her assessment has become excruciating, ‘I know it. Someone really fun and wild to keep you on your toes.’

S.H.I.E.L.D.’s therapist would argue that he needs the opposite, because his job is so fun and wild that he needs to be grounded before his myriad of unresolved traumas and negative thought patterns carry him into a real disaster beyond broken coffee makers and ill-fitting jogging bottoms, but he appreciates the sentiment. He tells her that.

‘I appreciate the thought,’ he says, ‘but I think fun and wild are a bit of a bad move for me.’

‘Oh,’ she says, and waggles her eyebrows; he can see in her eyes that she knows she made a bad call, and is playing it off to avoid upsetting the balance further, no matter how delicate that balance is, ‘ _you’re_ the fun and wild one, then? Dancing on the tabletops with your tie about your head, I bet.’

‘Honey, dancing on tabletops is _weak_. I’ll wrestle a tiger.’

‘Sounds dangerous.’

Her eyebrows are raised, a smile on her lips.

‘You bet it is. And I’d bear the scars proudly.’

She breathes out a laugh, and shakes her head. Her fingers brush his arm. He wishes he was wearing a thicker jacket, or no jacket at all.

‘I had a nice time,’ she says. ‘Thank you.’

He pauses for a heartbeat, two, three. Blinks at her mouth. Looks at her eyes, looks back at that smile. He licks his lips. He needs to step away _now_ , before he does some damage Rumlow’s knuckles can’t fix.

‘You’re welcome,’ he says, ‘I’ll – maybe see you around, eh?’

Something sad flickers across her face, and it would have been too fast if he hadn’t already been staring.

‘Yeah,’ she says, and her eyes flicker to _his_ mouth. He can’t help the smile. ‘Yeah, I hope so. Goodnight, Clint.’

‘Goodnight, Laura.’

He watches her walk halfway down the street, and realises she’s waiting for him to go before she turns back to go to her apartment; they’re all apartments along this street, so it’s not like she’s entirely found out if he sees which building she’s in. He sighs, and watches the sway of her hair for another second before turning and walking back the way he came.

* * *

He doesn’t sleep. He lies on the couch and stares at the ceiling, and listens to the sounds of the road below, and his apartment neighbours. Simone’s baby is crying three doors down; Josh is playing guitar, badly. A car honks its horn the way it does every pre-dawn, summoning someone on the other side of the street to work.

He doesn’t sleep. He lies on the couch and he stares at the ceiling and watches the sun filter through the blinds.

Josh has gone to class, and Simone taken her baby for a walk when the phone rings.

‘Barton,’ he says.

‘Clint,’ comes Coulson’s voice, breezy as ever. ‘Got an in-state for you, if you’re interested.’

‘I don’t want an arms dealer,’ he says, and Coulson laughs.

‘It’s not an arms dealer,’ Coulson assures him. ‘Find and retrieve. You get to do lots of perching in high places.’

‘I’m not a bird,’ Clint replies. ‘I just like getting a good view of a situation.’

‘Yes, I know. But you’ll get to do lots of viewing.’

‘Sure, why not? Not like I’m doing anything important.’

Clint knows that, as he hangs up with the promise of being on the next train. It won’t take him five minutes to get down into the subway, and the trains are regular enough that he won’t be waiting long. He’s got a bit of time to kill before he has to hurry, and so he gets up, and he has a shower, and he gets dressed in actual clothes, jeans and a sniff-test clean T-shirt (he needs to do laundry, and he knows he’s been putting it off, but the reason was perfectly valid) and he even tries to pair his socks. He gets a grey one and a white one, which is good enough for him.

Then he makes himself breakfast, and he eats it at the island instead of on the couch, and he washes the dishes straight away, instead of leaving them in the sink. He checks the doors and windows, then he strolls to the subway.

* * *

'You’ve had your hair cut,’ Coulson says as soon as Clint gets through the door to Meeting Room H two hours later.

He’s stood at one end of the desk; he’s obviously been pacing about the room. Special Agent Fury is sat in his usual spot, eyeballing him with his one lone eye, looking grumpy without any malice. The blinds are down, but angled open to let some natural light in. Being winter, there isn’t much left, and Fury seems as prone to winter blues as the rest of them. Clint isn’t surprised; contrary to popular belief, Fury is a human being. He even saw him piss once. It was a fleeting moment, and it was dark, late at night, in the toilets on the third floor, where neither of them really had any business being, but it happened, and Clint will go to his grave knowing that Nicholas J. Fury does in fact have a bladder.

‘What,’ Clint grunts, and sits down in the vacant chair, ‘is a man not allowed to cut his hair?’

Fury squints at him.

‘What are you up to?’ he asks.

‘I had my hair cut,’ Clint squints back, ‘I wasn’t aware I had to be up to something to do it. Do I have to go to a S.H.I.E.L.D. barber now, like I have to go to the dentist?’

Fury squints for another second, and then backs down.

‘Look, every civilian dentist we’ve used in this city has questioned the molar. No offence, Barton, but a secret agent’s job is kind of, a little bit, dependant on him not being found to have cyanide in his tooth.’

‘I never asked for cyanide in my tooth,’ Clint replies.

‘Nobody asks for haemorrhoids either.’

‘Can we get onto the briefing?’ Coulson asks, ‘I do have other agents to talk to today.’

Both Clint and Fury snort.

‘Listen to him,’ Fury says, jerking a thumb at the agent. ‘Thinks he can boss me about.’

‘To be fair, sir,’ Coulson starts, and Fury just covers his face. 

From behind his hand, he says, ‘Barton, you’re going over to the Bronx, I need you to track down and retrieve some stolen goods for me.’

‘Are they interesting stolen goods?’

‘Eh, chemical weapons, city-ending strength, in bad hands, the usual.’

‘Oh, cool, at least it’s not guns. I’m bored of guns.’

‘Thought you might be.’

Coulson fills him in on the rest, and they send him on his way.

When he’s gone, Coulson turns to Fury.

‘He cut his hair,’ he says. ‘He _never_ cuts his hair.’

‘I know,’ Fury nods. ‘Should I have someone tail him, do you think, or will he show himself up?’

‘Oh, show himself up, definitely. I’ve got an idea about what’s caused it, but I’m not convinced. You’ve heard he got into that scrap with Rollins last month?’

‘Damn near had the man’s ribs out,’ Fury says, ‘Jones was pissing steam over it for weeks. Really wanted your head over it, like any of you have any control over your agents. God knows Director Carter learnt that with the Commandos. You can steer them, but you can’t control them. I told him to park his issues at the door or to get out of my sight, and he calmed down after that.’

‘He never came and talked to me about it,’ Coulson says, and finally sits down.

‘No,’ Fury sighs, ‘Rollins doesn’t talk to anyone about it, either. Couldn’t get anything out of him about what started it.’

‘Something about the Christmas party,’ Coulson shrugs. ‘Clint says that’s when it all started, but won’t say what it was. Denies knowing, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’

Fury considers it for a moment, leafing through the mission file. ‘I wonder if – no, he’s not that stupid, surely.’

‘This is Clint, sir. He very well might be. What level of stupid are you thinking?’

‘Rumlow’s fiancée went, didn’t she? That pretty little thing from Hell’s Kitchen. She’ll be the death of Rumlow, if he’s not careful. She’s – ‘

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought,’ Coulson interrupts. ‘I met her by chance, after they got engaged.’

‘Chance.’

‘It was happenstance. I tripped over next to her when she was buying a coffee.’

Fury doesn’t smile, but his eye creases.

‘She’s a nice girl, very sensible. Got a good head on her shoulders, but there’s definitely a wicked streak in there somewhere. Capable of lots of mischief.’

‘A good fit for Rumlow?’

Coulson teeters a hand. ‘Maybe. He’s a lot more – pig-headed – than he needs to be. And he’s been working a lot more lately, have you noticed?’

‘Cold feet?’

‘I’m not sure. I think he’s saving up? You’ll have to talk to him or Deacon.’

Fury shakes his head. ‘It’s not that important, not at the moment. She’s safe, and he’s happy enough. Is Barton going to cause any trouble?’

‘Shouldn’t,’ Coulson says, ‘but this is Barton. He’ll find trouble.’

Fury hums, and shuffles his papers. ‘Keep an eye on him. A haircut! Barton! Willingly! He’s up to something.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ Coulson nods, and takes his leave.

* * *

Laura sits on her couch, curled under a blanket with her winter pyjamas, and bed socks pulled high about her calves, hot chocolate in her hands. She stares at the TV for a few minutes at a time, and then looks at the window, looks at the clock, looks at the phone. She doesn’t expect to have a phone call, but she’s in the habit of it now. For the most part, she’s watching Unsolved Mysteries, and she’s enjoying it, in that sort of way you enjoy things like murders and disappearances, but she’s thinking a lot, too.

She’s finding herself thinking about Clint. It’s weird, the way he keeps cropping up in her head. She doesn’t even want to think about him, and yet, here he is. His crooked smile, and his bad hair, and his eyes that are so blue as to look like electricity, or a just-cleared storm.

She sighs. An advert for Reebok trainers plays at an obnoxious volume compared to the show. It starts to rain, and she turns her gaze to the window. In the water on the glass, the streetlight outside dapples, and turns into a dozen diamonds. She watches a raindrop make its way down the pane, gathering up several others on its way, and then it disappears onto the sill.

Taking a sip of hot chocolate, she looks at the phone again. Rumlow hasn’t called in days. She wasn’t expecting him to, but it would be nice, to have a surprise call from him.

She wonders what Clint’s doing. Is he sitting and watching Unsolved Mysteries? Is he at work? At that Italian place, eating pizza and staring out at the rain? She hopes he’s eating, he obviously doesn’t eat enough. Next time she sees him, she’ll nag him about getting a better diet than whatever he currently doesn’t eat.

‘Next time,’ she laughs. ‘You’d be so lucky.’

She likes him, sure. It’s been a while since she made a new friend, and she’s always been one of those girls that – it’s not that she gets attached to them, but she likes to learn everything she can, get to know people. It can be a bit much, according to her dad, who watched her fumble with boyfriends for most of her adolescence, but now she’s engaged, so what does that say?

Just got to find the right guy, is all.

If she doesn’t weird Clint out, he’ll be a really good friend, she can tell. He’s got something going on, somewhere in the back of his head, and maybe one day he’ll tell her, maybe he won’t. But she won’t judge him based on what he doesn’t tell her, oh heavens no. She’ll love him either way, and she’ll make sure he’s growing old gracefully.

Get a hold of yourself, girl.

The phone rings, and she spills her hot chocolate down herself, swearing all the way as she waddles to the phone, looking like she’s wet herself in frothy brown. Definitely a doctor’s appointment she can’t afford, ha.

‘Hello, Laura speaking.’

‘Hello, beautiful.’

‘Brock!’ she exclaims, ‘I was just thinking of you!’

‘Oh, really?’ he drawls, and she can picture him, all long lines as he leans against the wall or table he’s next to, a long stretch of his arm, bicep bunching, and T-shirt twisting to accommodate his muscle.

She’s not one for the vanity of men with muscles, but she does enjoy running her hands over him, over the swell of his arm and the ripple of his abs, the sharp cut of his jaw. He’s handsome, and he’s hers, and she can touch him whenever she likes, and she’s quite tactile, considering.

‘Yes, really. Is that weird?’

‘Depends on what you’re wearing while you think about me,’ he teases.

‘Well,’ she drawls back, because two can play that game, and shimmies out of her sodden pants. ‘I’m not wearing any pants.’

‘Oh?’ he hums, and she hears him straighten; he hadn’t expected that answer. ‘I didn’t – disturb anything, did I?’

‘Not really,’ she hums back, ‘I was just enjoying a little, alone time.’

‘See, I told you I should have installed another phone in your bedroom, but you wouldn’t let me.’

‘Just as well I wasn’t _in_ my bedroom then,’ she says. ‘I was enjoying the view out of my living room window.’

‘You were, huh? Never took you for the sort, my girl.’

She likes it when he calls her things like that, the things that identified them as _together_ , as her being _his_. Not just the beautiful and darling and sweethearts, but the my girl and dear one and my loves. She likes those names.

‘Well, that’s what happens when you’re on your own all night,’ she shrugs. ‘There’s not a lot to do when your fiancé is out of town.’

‘So you were entertaining yourself,’ he surmises.

‘Mm, yeah, and I was really entertained until you called. Spilled hot chocolate all down myself, what a waste.’

His deflation is audible, and it’s almost cute. They haven’t had sex in a month, but that’s hardly her fault. He’s been away for most of it, and they haven’t had time for a date in the rest.

‘Shame,’ he says. ‘I’ve missed your legs.’

‘Just my legs?’

‘And your ass, to be fair. I mean, you really should get onto running, you’d be so much prettier with some muscle on you. But it is a good ass.’

She stares at the wall. ‘Did you call me for anything in particular?’ she asks, ‘I was watching Unsolved Mysteries, and it was getting to a good part in the disappearance of these boys from Iowa after their parents died.’

There’s silence for a second.

‘Well,’ he says, ‘not really, I just missed you, is all. Haven’t spoken to you for a few days, thought I’d give you a call. I did call the other night, but you weren’t in.’

‘No,’ she says, ‘I went out for dinner. I bumped into that guy from the Christmas party again, too. Charles whats-his-name.’

‘Clint,’ Brock grits out, and she smiles. He hates it. ‘His name’s Clint.’

‘Oh, yeah, him. He’s pretty funny. He does a really good impression of Sheryl Crow.’

Brock clears his throat. ‘I’ll let you get back to your show,’ he says, ‘and I’ll be home on Thursday, so let’s go away for the weekend.’

‘Sure,’ she says, and smiles, genuinely. Her heart even flutters a little bit. ‘I’d like that.’

‘It’s a date. Love you, goodnight.’

He hangs up without waiting for a response.

She stares at the phone for a second, and puts the receiver down.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Love you too.’

She looks at the pyjama pants on the floor, becomes aware that she’s standing in January chill in her underwear and a T-shirt, in front of an open window in a well-lit room, even if it is on the third floor, and shuffles to the sink to rinse the pants out before they stain. Then she gets a fresh pair of pants, pulls them on and tucks them into her bed socks, and settles under the blanket again.

When she wakes up in the morning, it’s to the sound of cars below and her alarm clock beside her. She stares at the ceiling, and tries to shake the feeling of tingling in her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed, my lovelies~! This is so much fun to write, I've missed the birds a lot.


End file.
